How to Speak Australian
by Michelle
Summary: A peek into Mulder's thoughts . . .


Title : How to Speak Australian  
  
Author : Mickey  
  
Rating : PG  
  
Spoilers : Minor ones for the most part, but if you haven't seen up to   
the end of Season 8, then you probably want to avoid this one :)  
  
Keywords : MSR/UST  
  
Disclaimer : Nope. You're all wrong. I own them. And surfer boy is   
lucky I'm nice enough to let him play with them.  
  
Archive : Gossamer and Ephemeral; OK. Everyone else; bag it, tag   
it, tell me where it is. (You know the drill:)  
  
Summary : Mulder's thoughts, which, not so coincidentaly, are   
stunningly similiar to my own at the moment.   
  
Author's Notes : At present count, I haven't slept in, oh, five days   
or so. The problem with this is that, while in the first stages of sleep   
deprivation I am light hearted and happy, I too can get really   
frelling tired. And when that I happens, I get angsty. Hence, a fic   
like this. Not really a sequel, kind of a prequel, but a fic nevertheless.   
This takes place somewhere after Mulder is back, but while he's still   
in the FBI, and Scully hasn't taken her leave (yeah, I know, I know.   
Poetic license, people!). Hope you like it. Oh, and the title is a   
reference to the beer commercial I was watching while trying to think  
of a name for this thing.  
  
Feedback : Please! gnrgirl@hotmail.com  
  
  
This one here, for reasons that shall safely remain an in-joke, is   
dedicated to my dear friend Libby.  
  
  
XXXXXX  
  
  
It wouldn't be so bad if I could sleep more than a few hours at a time.   
  
My life, I mean. Those extra hours, though they may seem a source   
of envy to those of you who need a full eight, make for far, far too   
much time for me to mull over things better left to the annals of time.   
  
My sister.  
  
My parents.  
  
My failed aspirations.  
  
My failing career.  
  
My failing as a . . . friend?  
  
How can I ever make it up to her? For what I've done; the way I . . .   
the way I . . . left her. No two ways about it, I abandoned her in her   
greatest time of need. I knew, or at least suspected, that it was me   
they wanted, not her. And yet I still went. I knew, or at least   
suspected, that she was pregnant. And yet I still went. What does   
that say about me?  
  
There are thousands of "ifs" that run through my mind every night.   
Things I don't want to think, but nevertheless pervade my   
consciousness. And, almost without failure, I reach for a bottle. I   
have done it before, and I will do it again.  
  
Point in fact, I am doing it now. Hurling open the door of my nearly   
bare refridgerator, I push past the half gallon of iced tea, my hand   
searching for the familiar cool of a glass bottle. All I am rewarded   
with is a can of the crap Langely somehow stomachs. No small   
wonder he can chug it like water. Canned beer has never sat well   
with me. I toss it back in with a mental note to pick up a case of   
something, anything, when I go out. Maybe some Beck's . . .   
  
The beer idea shot, I go straight for the hard liquor, a move not   
usually made until I'm already half drunk. The remains of a bottle   
of tequilla and half a liter of rum are all that grace my once stocked   
cupboard. Rum that she bought . . .  
  
I can't bear to even touch the thing. To simply graze the surface of   
something she once touched, something she handpicked for me . . .  
I would indirectly be touching her. This train of thought will seem   
foolish in the light, I know this. I will rue the moment I decided I   
couldn't touch the bottle, couldn't escape the reality of the world.   
But it is night, deep night, and the night has ways of masking the   
reasonable no matter how smart and clever one thinks they may be.   
  
I glance up at the clock. Only 2:30, there's a store on the corner I   
know will still be open. I grab my jacket, smooth leather coming into   
contact with my rough, still too bony digits.   
  
I'm out the door without a second thought. All I can focus on is the   
promise of burning fluid. All that runs through my brain whilst I call   
the elevator is getting to sleep, getting away from thinking, away   
from what remains of my life. My only goal is to get through another   
night so I can stumble into work tomorrow and still be able to look   
her in the eye.  
  
The elevator is particularly slow tonight. My impatience gets the   
best of me, and I thump once more on the red highlighted button.   
I'm almost ready to use the stairs when the all too familiar "ding"   
turns me back. The silver doors slid open, and I prepare to step   
aboard.   
  
And then I am confronted with the source of my mood, rendering   
my momentarily speechless. If there ever was proof of God's   
existence, this little quirk of his humor would be it.  
  
"Scully, I . . . "  
  
"Mulder!" She sounds shocked at finding me here, even though I   
have more reason to be so then she.   
  
"I was just coming to see you . . ." she stammers, a hesitant hand   
to her distended stomach. It tears at my heart, at least what's left   
of it. What little I've managed to keep intact these past months,   
however, has been the tiny part I allowed myself to reserve for her.   
  
"I can get a cab back . . ." she turns to go, further wrenching at my   
heart strings.   
  
"No!" I stop her, placing a gently restraining hand on her arm. "I  
was just going for a walk. Couldn't sleep. But now that you're   
here . . ." I leave the thought unfinished, as if there ever was a   
'finish' intended.  
  
She allows me to lead her back to my apartment, making small talk as   
we go.   
  
Inside, the small discomfort has melted away, leaving us with our   
old familiarity. The emotion does much to calm me, though I'm not   
certain if I should be surprised.  
  
I hand her a glass of the tea; it was hers anyway, and help her to   
the couch. It feels so good to touch her, to have my hand on her   
back once more. The months without it hurt me more than the   
testing ever could. I also feel something else . . . something I can   
not identify immediately.   
  
Pride? Is that this burning within my chest when I look at the   
swell of her stomach? Is that what makes me feel so . . . so . . .   
well, masculine?  
  
It doesn't matter, not now. All that matters is her presence here.  
  
We sit, sipping out tea in silence. And though we are close in literal   
distance, our figurative one remains further than that while I was . . .   
away.   
  
Companionable silence leads to nothing. Long minutes later, we are   
still going strong with the tea. When the noislessness becomes   
deafening, and it has, inevitably, I have no choice but to speak. She   
could always bear the silence, oddly enough. It was me, the social   
outcast, that couldn't deal with the stark reality of quiet. It was   
always me that ended up breaking our long silences. I can not help   
but break this silence, though I so wish it to be otherwise.  
  
And because I can not hold my tongue, because I can not tell her   
what I'm feeling now, because she musn't be burdened with my   
declaration of love, I say instead;  
  
"How 'bout a movie?"  
  
XXXXXXX  
  



End file.
